


An Act of Faith

by queenmevesknickers



Category: Thronebreaker: The Witcher Tales (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Medical Procedures, Thronebreaker: The Witcher Tales
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27653660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenmevesknickers/pseuds/queenmevesknickers
Summary: There were half a dozen occasions that Reynard could recall in the last few years, when he could have kissed her: late at night after finally resolving a particularly complicated dispute between some of the Rivian nobles, a breathless moment after a dance at a ball at Lyria Castle. There’d even been times when he thought that maybe she’d wanted him to. But every single time, he’d held back. Worried he’d mistaken the look in her eyes, fearful of losing their friendship, reluctant to risk the respect and trust which he treasured so dearly. But now, seeing her so close to despair, he wondered if he could be brave enough to show her just how extraordinary she was, in his eyes at least.Meve has a moment of doubt; Reynard does what he can to help.
Relationships: Meve (The Witcher)/Reynard Odo
Comments: 7
Kudos: 19





	An Act of Faith

The confusion in a large army camp after a major battle often rivalled the chaos on the field itself, Reynard found. Though some hours had passed since they’d taken the bridge, there was still a buzz of activity throughout the encampment. As he made his way through the maze of canvas, he passed Gascon, who was supervising the shackling of their prisoners and the requisitioning of their goods with a look of deep satisfaction on his face, and stopped briefly by the medics’ tent, where many of the wounded still waited outside for their turn to be seen – some in much better shape than others. He carried on, past groups of soldiers celebrating the victory, and others mourning their fallen companions, and those simply enjoying their ale out in the weak sunshine, his steps leading him unerringly to Meve’s tent.

She’d finally allowed herself to be dragged away by the medics after the impromptu knighting of the witcher, wilting a little as the pain of her wound and her exertions on the field began to take their toll. He knew she’d insisted that Isbel’s power be reserved for those with graver injuries, asserting through sentences punctuated by bloodied spit that any of the other medics could tend to her just as well. So they’d half carried her back to her tent, and Reynard, not wanting to be in the way, had taken the time to oversee the activity occurring in the camp, and then allowed himself the luxury of washing at least some of the blood and dust off his hands and face, before going to see how she was.

There was only one medic tending Meve now, who was lying flat on her back, staring straight at the ceiling as the young woman worked carefully on her face. She caught sight of Reynard from the corner of her eye though, and raised her hand in greeting; the young medic, whose name he thought might be Ciera, turned and gave him a quick nod before turning back to her patient.

He came to stand by her bedside. “Your Grace, forgive my intrusion. I wished to see how you fared.”

Meve lifted a hand again, and the medic paused in her work to allow the queen to speak. “’M fine fanks, Reyn’d.” She lifted her head and spat another gob of blood into a bucket that had clearly been placed for the purpose. “Ugh…maybe no’ fine, exac’ly.” She gave a weak laugh, but her forehead was soaked with sweat, and tear tracks were visible running from the corner of each eye down the sides of her face.

“Have they not given you something for th’ pain?” he asked, glancing at the medic, who nodded.

“Yes, but…I can still feel th’ needle.” She shuddered slightly and turned to the woman, her eyes slightly desperate. “Jus’ a few more?”

The medic barely hesitated before nodding, though Reynard could see there was some way to go yet; he could see too, where Meve’s nails had broken the skin on her palms from clenching her fists too tightly. He remembered all too well the unpleasant tugging and pulling of having your skin stitched back together, and he’d never even had to have quite so many at once – nor on his face. Quietly, he drew up a stool and sat well out of the medic’s way, but close enough to take Meve’s hand, and felt her grip tighten on his immediately.

Reynard was sorry to see her suffering, and pained that she’d suffered such a devastating wound, but neither feeling could diminish the overpowering sense of relief he felt. There’d been a heart-stopping moment, when he saw the blow land, saw Meve recoil, and the flood of crimson that had quickly drenched her; he hadn’t been able to help but cry out in fear. But he’d heard her curse, loudly, and seen that she’d remained on her feet and pulled back through the ranks, and he could breathe again. He’d believed then she’d be alright, and did his best to fix his attention on the fray before him, where their new unexpected allies were carving their path to victory. Perhaps he might have worried more if he hadn’t almost lost her just a few days before, but the image of the assassin’s rope around her neck was still burned into his mind. The pain of seeing her wounded on the field was almost bearable in comparison to the far more insidious danger that none of them had fathomed.

He remained silent as the medic continued her work, not wanting to distract her. Her young face was beaded with sweat, and her brow deeply furrowed in concentration, but her small hands were steady, and her slender fingers were fashioning the neatest stitches Reynard had ever seen. She worked slowly, carefully, but eventually she tied off the last suture and sat back, wiping her face and rolling her tensed shoulders. Meve sighed in relief.

“Gods. You’ve done a fine job, Ciera,” said Reynard, glad he’d remembered her name correctly when he saw her cheeks flush at the praise. He meant it, too; she’d managed to align the skin almost perfectly, the stitches small and even. He remembered what he’d collected from the medics’ tent, and handed the vials over to her. “Here – Isbel sent these.”

“Oh! Thank you, General.” She gently applied the contents of one to the wound, which made Meve screw her eyes shut and let out a hiss. She then handed the other to the queen. “M’lady – take this one in your mouth, but don’t swallow it; just hold it there for a minute then spit it out. It’ll numb th’ pain from th’ inside.”

Meve sat up and nodded. “Thank you, Ciera,” she said, obviously trying to enunciate clearly despite the pain. “I’m very grateful.”

“I’m glad I could help, Your Majesty.” She began to pack away her kit.

Reynard laid a hand gently on her shoulder. “Make sure you rest, have something to eat, before you help anyone else today – understood?”

Ciera nodded and gave him a weary but grateful smile as she left the tent.

“We’re very lucky to have her,” he said, turning to Meve. He felt another wave of relief at seeing the awful wound at least some way towards being put right.

“Mmm.” She had the strangest expression on her face. “She’s very pretty.”

Reynard was highly confused by that statement; while true, it hardly seemed relevant. Maybe the blow to the head had affected Meve more than he’d realised. Or maybe it was the pain. “You should take that, Your Grace.” He gestured to vial she still held.

“Yes, I should. Thank you, Reynard.” She tipped the contents into her mouth and pulled a face, either at the taste or the sensation. By the time she spat it back into the bucket, she did seem to have gotten some relief. “That’s better. Though –” She poked her tongue into her cheek. “I can’t really feel anything in my mouth now. Ugh, it’s strange.” She raised a hand to her cheek and tentatively traced the outline of her new scar. Her face fell. “It’s awful, isn’t it?” she asked glumly.

“It will heal beautifully, Your Grace,” he said quickly. Too quickly, perhaps.

Meve snorted. “Beautifully? I doubt it.” She looked around the tent. “Course I don’t have a damn mirror with me – what would I need it for out here?” Her gaze snapped back to him. “You must have one, Reynard.”

“What?”

“A mirror. You must have one, to shave with.”

“Ye-es,” he replied hesitantly. “It’s only small, though.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said, affecting carelessness, though there was an edge to her voice. “Will you bring it to me?”

He knew that look in her eyes all too well. It would be useless to try and talk her out of it. “Yes, Your Grace. If that’s what you wish.” He sighed and set off for his tent. He brought it back to her reluctantly. “Perhaps it might be better to wait a day or two…”

“Hand it over, Reynard.” She regarded her reflection with a cool, dispassionate gaze for a long moment, taking in the angry, red, swollen line that cut jaggedly across her cheek; then abruptly slammed the mirror onto the table. “Sorry,” she said quietly, when he jumped a little at the violent gesture. “If it’s broken, I’ll get you another.”

“It’s nothing, Your Grace.” He was far more troubled by the look on her face than the possible damage to a cheap mirror.

“I expect this will end th’ ballads of th’ beauty of Queen Meve.” She stood and turned away from him, arms folded.

There were many things Reynard wished to say in that moment. He wanted to tell her that she was as breath-taking as ever; that even as she was now, streaked with blood, sweat and tears, even with her bright hair snarled and filthy, and yes, even with a bloody great scar carved across her cheek, she was the most beautiful woman on the continent. Or even to say that there were so many things more beautiful about her than her fair face – her bravery, her kind heart, the passion that made those blue eyes blaze when she fought for what she believed in. But he didn’t know if he could say the words without sounding trite and placating, or worse, betray a far greater depth of feeling than he wanted her to realise.

“Your Grace –” he began.

“It’s fine, Reynard, really.” But she tipped her head back as though trying to hold in tears. “Just a blow to my gods-damned vanity. Ironic, really, given that’s what’s gotten me here.” She half-turned back to him, with a laugh that sounded closer to a sob. “After all, you’ve hinted often enough that I ought to wear a helmet. And proven right as always. Surprised you’ve resisted an ‘I told you so’.”

“You know I’d never gloat at your misfortune,” he said softly.

She gave a small, sad smile. “I know. You’re far too good for that.” She sighed. “No point dwelling on it. There are far more important matters requiring my attention now.”

Reynard saw the opportunity to change the subject and seized it; there would be time enough yet, he hoped, to convince her that her person was in no way diminished by this wound – but for now, distraction seemed like the better course. “Indeed, Your Grace. Now that we’ve secured this victory, th’ path ahead –”

“Victory?” she said, her voice hollow. “I suppose it is, but it hardly feels like it. Gods damn it, Reynard, how close did we come to being annihilated? The force that we’ve spent weeks, months building, almost wiped out by those whoresons like they were swatting a fly. If it weren’t for that bloody witcher and his friends –” Here he saw her clench her jaw, then turn white at the pain.

“It’s true, th’ Blackclads ever outnumber us,” he broke in, frowning a little at this uncharacteristic pessimism. “But th’ odds have been stacked against us from th’ start. And yet look how far we’ve come – how close we are now to returning home.”

“Home. After all this time. And yet we still have so far to go.” Her shoulders slumped. “Home, to see what havoc the Blackclads have wrought on my country. Home, probably to fight my own subjects and lay siege to their towns. And to wage war against my own son.” She turned back to face him, her eyes full of doubt. “There were plenty who called me mad to even think of trying to stand against th’ Empire – now I wonder if they were right. What have I done, Reynard? What path have I led us down?”

He didn’t know how to respond. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her look so unsure of herself. Not when she’d been stripped of her crown and tossed in a dungeon and chased from her kingdom; not when she’d been betrayed by those closest to her, not even when she’d come a few seconds from death at the hands of the Nilfgaardian spy only a few days ago. The fire that normally blazed in her was dimmed; the pride that had kept her standing tall with her head held high had, momentarily at least, deserted her. And Reynard hated to see it. He’d seen her furious, he’d seen her upset, he’d seen her cry – but never had he seen her lose hope. They’d had worse days, certainly; but if she’d had doubts or second thoughts, she’d always hidden them entirely – only the gods knew what it cost her to do so. But it seemed today had pushed even Meve to her limits. He knew he had to do something.

There were half a dozen occasions that Reynard could recall in the last few years when he could have kissed her: late at night after finally resolving a particularly complicated dispute between some Rivian nobles, a breathless moment after a dance at a ball at Lyria Castle. There’d even been times when he thought that maybe she’d wanted him to. But every single time, he’d held back. Worried he’d mistaken the look in her eyes, fearful of losing their friendship, reluctant to risk the respect and trust which he treasured so dearly. But now, seeing her so close to despair, he wondered if he could be brave enough to show her just how extraordinary she was, in his eyes at least.

He reached out a hand and gently cupped her cheek – the uninjured one – letting his fingers slide into her hair. Her lips parted slightly in surprise. “My faith in you is unshakeable and unwavering. I don’t ever doubt that you will do what is right and just. And I know that anything you believe in is a cause worth fighting for.”

And then he kissed her. Softly, on the side of her mouth that was unhurt, he lingered for a long, sweet moment. When he finally pulled back, he saw all traces of self-doubt and sadness had vanished from her expression – she was merely blinking at him in wide-eyed shock.

“Reynard – ah – I…um…thank you,” she finally said, in some confusion, her cheeks bright pink.

He knew he was blushing more than a little himself. “Any time, Your Grace.”

“No, truly,” she said, taking his hand. “It means th’ world to me.”

He kissed her hand, still looking into her eyes, hoping she could see in his gaze all the things he’d left unsaid – for now. “I should go attend to other matters – if you’ll excuse me, Your Majesty. But I’ll be waiting for your summons, th’ moment you require me.”

She nodded, still looking thoroughly bemused. But he could already see the difference in her stance, the tilt of her chin, the set of her jaw; he didn’t think it would be long until his proud warrior queen regained her fighting spirit.

Reynard turned to go, and was almost out of the tent, when a sudden realisation struck him. He turned back to her, feeling a little dumbstruck, and not quite able to hide an incredulous smile. “Meve – you do realise Ciera’s young enough to be my daughter, don’t you? You didn’t think – I don’t – I wouldn’t –” He shook his head, and turned to leave – but not before he saw he touch her fingers to her mouth, a faint smile playing on her lips.


End file.
